Uncut (Unexpected Book 4)

by Burgoa, Claudia

  I laugh as I glance to my left. After leaving Thrice, he convinced me to go for a hike with him. He said we would stay close by. We ended up driving more than an hour to a place called Dash Point in Tacoma. The place is mainly flat. Not the usual uphill trails I’m used to in California. The woodsy area is parallel to the beach. The unique mix of both environments and the sun setting on the west side make me take my phone out for a picture. It’s not every day I have the opportunity to witness the purple sky and the view of two different landscapes becoming one.

  “Do you do this often?” I catch up with Matthew who continues his way through the trail.

  “Yes. Anywhere I go I find a place where I can walk along with nature. It’s . . . calming.” He slows his pace and looks toward the horizon where the sun is covered by pink clouds as it hides behind the sea.

  Without giving it a second thought, he grabs my wrist and guides me to the beach side of the park. My knee-jerk reaction is to release my hand from his grasp. Holding hands with another man can be interpreted as “a gay thing.” What if someone saw us? But after a few breaths, I realize the warmth of his hand has released the tension I’ve carried since we arrived at the park.

  We come to a stop in the middle of the beach and he releases me. “Close your eyes,” he says with a raspy voice. “What do you feel?”

  I tilt my head in his direction waiting for a punchline, but I realize his eyes are closed.

  “The wind,” he responds. “Take a deep breath and close those eyes.”

  I do, and momentarily my body is releasing everything I carry. It's a refreshing sensation. It's peace. Only the sound of the crashing waves.

  “Look,” Matthew says, and I open my eyes to witness the last rays of sun.

  “This is perfection.” He points at the sunset. “Watching the ocean swallow the burning sun and promising that tomorrow will be another day.”

  “That’s different, I never took you for a poet.”

  “I’m a little of everything,” he says, shrugging it off and turning around. “My father Chris used to take me out on hikes when I had a bad day.”

  “You had a bad day?”

  “Everyone has struggles, Tristan,” he says, spinning around and starting to walk back toward where we came. “I learned to live with them and not let them define who I am. It’s easier when you have family and friends to lean on. Maybe it’s time to let someone into your life. Let someone know why you struggle.”

  Why I struggle?

  Because I can’t be myself. Because being myself goes against my family and my own beliefs. I’ve lived with a continuous fight since my parents caught me kissing another boy.

  What if someone saw me?

  What if I’m condemning my soul?

  Will I burn in hell?

  According to my father, my sexual “depravation” would prevent me from being successful and happy. My therapist had insisted I’d only been acting up, rebelling. If I liked women, there wasn’t any possibility that I liked men too. They promised I’d grow out of it. However, nothing they said or anything I’ve tried has stopped me from lusting after men.

  For all I know, my parents wasted their money to have a team of professionals bully me. Torment me while I tried to find my place—a place I’d rather avoid. Those three months of intensive therapy, where they drilled inside my head that looking at a man with lust was a sin as bad as murder, only brought confusion and shame. I fought my own nature on a daily basis until senior prom.

  Blake, the QB of our football team, and I are shooting some hoops instead of dancing with our dates inside the gym.

  “Heard you’re going to Stanford,” I say, throwing the ball and missing the basket. “Congrats, maybe you’ll make it to the NFL.”

  He shrugs, casually considering this. “Sucked that you were out of the country and couldn’t train with us. I needed my running back for the last season, Cooperson.” He grabs the basketball and his dark eyes concentrate on mine. “You and I . . . we had a connection.”

  A connection. Shivers race down my spine at his words. I take a step back, watching him, taking him all in. He’s taken his jacket and shirt off, wearing only the undershirt that fits tight against his muscular stomach. His pants hang low on his hips . . . I notice the outline of his erection through them and move my eyes away. Fuck. No, I can’t go back to camp. God will punish me, and my father will beat me for committing a sinful act. For thinking about touching another man, but I want to touch him so bad.

  “Like what you see?” he asks, cocking a brow and flashing a wide smile. “Because I’m liking what you have.” I follow his gaze to find him focusing on my bulge. Shame overtakes me, and I take a few steps back from him, suddenly needing to put some space between us. Like maybe a football field. “Hey, if I’m misreading you, I apologize.”

  “I was sent to a camp,” I blurt. His eyebrows draw together. “To reverse my sexuality. According to my parents and the therapists, being attracted to women and men is a sin.”

  He shakes his head. “I can show you how great it is to like men,” he whispers, a whisper that numbs the voices telling me that being attracted to him is wrong. In this moment it is only Blake and me. The rest doesn’t matter. For a few breaths we study each other. His eyes fill with lust mirroring my body. I give him a slight nod.

  That’s all he needs to take my hand after he grabs our jackets and dress shirts. “Follow me,” he orders and I obey blindly.

  Young, stupid, and in lust, I do as he says, jump into his car, and let him take me wherever he wants. He drives us to a Residence Inn located outside of Hartford, the place where he had planned to take his date after the prom. When we step inside the room, Blake is only mere inches away from me. Slowly, he raises his hand, touching my cheek. My body shakes as his fingers trace my jaw. Then, with determination, he leans in and presses his lips to mine. I can’t move because Blake Kennedy is pressing his lips against mine, his tongue is licking my mouth, pushing through, trying to get in.

  No. This is wrong, I think. Pulling back I stare at him.

  “Don’t think, Cooperson. Let me show you that there’s nothing wrong with letting a man love you.” His voice is hoarse with lust and excitement. He steps closer, backing me up until my back bumps the door. “I’ve dreamt of us rocking each other’s worlds for a long time. Give me tonight.”

  I had no idea he’s into guys, but the thought of Blake Kennedy rocking my world almost makes me come. This is bad, but it feels so good. His hard cock presses against mine. Holy shit, I don’t have a prayer. One night. I can do it for one night and maybe get the need out of my system. Yes, tomorrow I’ll rush to church and confess my sins. They’ll absolve me for being weak, and after penance I won’t do it again.

  My hands curl around the back of his neck and I tug him toward me. Our mouths meet in another soft kiss. His chest pushes against mine while he grinds his firm body against me. A groan escapes me. A groan that makes him deepen the kiss. The pace turns into a desperate battle. His hands fumble with my belt, while mine just copy what he does. Pants go down, white tank shirts come off, and we’re left with only one piece of clothing remaining: our underwear.

  I admire his abs. The V-line they form go all the way to his groin. But mostly, I admire his bulge. Instinctually I want to hold it. Suck it.

  Blake moves us toward the bed, where we lie only seconds later. His arms reach for me, pull me into his embrace. All the fooling around I did with Lincoln doesn’t compare to what I’m about to do. The internal fight between what I feel and what I know struggles once Blake’s hand slides between our bodies and grasps my cock. His fist pumps my slick dick. My legs tremble as my balls tighten, feeling heavy and in need of release.

  “Don’t come yet,” he says, releasing me. “Please, I want you to come while I fuck you. Have you ever?” My head shakes, and no words come out of my mouth. “I’ll make it good for you. You won’t regret it.”

  Blake is prepared. He pulls a bottle of lube from the duffle b
ag he brought from the car. He dribbles some onto his fingers and applies it into my hole. Gently he pushes the tip of his finger inside my ass. The strange pressure between my cheeks makes me want to push him out.

  “Relax, babe, let me inside.” He kisses the tip of my cock. How I would love for him to take it into his mouth. “This will hurt at first, but I’ll make it feel good.”

  Following his words, I let the tension go allowing him to be able to thrust his finger all the way in. The ministration continues, moving in and out at a lazy pace. I enjoy the pressure, but mostly, the pleasure each time he hits my prostate. Gradually he adds a second and then a third to circle my ring, stroking it, teasing as they sink deeper and deeper inside me. It. Feels. So. Good. I can’t help the moan that escapes my mouth.

  “Fuck, you feel so good. You’ve made me so hard. You’re ready for me.” He tears the condom open, rolls it down his shaft, and then applies lube on the latex. “Ready?” I nod. “On your back. I want to see your face.”

  Gripping his cock, he positions himself between my thighs. The head nudges my hole, and I tense.

  “Breathe, babe, you have to relax.” His voice is barely a whisper.

  I swallow hard and close my eyes. This is it. Tonight I’ll get a taste and tomorrow I’ll make sure to shut this need. Never again would I desire a man. He pushes forward, easing himself inside me.

  “Are you okay?” I open my eyes and slightly nod in response. “Tell me when I can move.” My reply is a loud moan. He takes that as a go ahead and thrusts all the way in. The intense burn wakes all my nerves. Blake fucks me with determination, yet with slow strokes. But I don’t want slow. I want fast, deeper, so I hook my legs around his ass and meet him each time he plunges himself inside me. Desperate, I beg him to go faster.

  His hand reaches between our bodies and finds my cock. He fists it and pumps at the same rhythm as he fucks me. The moment my balls tighten, my entire vision is reduced to only him. Blake. We both groan when he plunges one last time all the way inside my ass and my cum sprays his chest.

  Coming down from the high, and watching Blake collapse on top of me while realizing I’ve failed my family and God, make me jet out of the room. I can barely make out Blake’s protests as I flee. They make me hate myself even more. It was good, until I remember that it should be bad.

  Ever since I can remember, Sunday has always been my least favorite day. During my childhood, I hated being dragged to church dressed like a younger version of my father. Sitting straight while the priest rattled on about stuff I never understood irritated me, but not as much as dinner at my grandparents’ house. We had to sit on the couch for hours until the meal was ready and then eat in silence while the adults chatted about boring subjects neither Fey, Lucas, nor I understood. Once the torture was over, we’d head back home and wait for Monday. I hated weekends.

  Matthew reminded me today of those torturous times, and why I still don’t find any joy knowing it’s Sunday. He invited me to his parents’ house for Sunday dinner. A five-year tradition, he explained. I appreciated his invite, but declined it right away. There’s no way I’m going to dinner with his family, or with him. I’ve had enough Matthew Decker to last me for an entire year. He’s not bad, but the attraction I once felt for him has increased significantly. If we continue interacting I will lose my strength and give in to his advances.

  After Matthew left, I grabbed my wallet and my keys, and headed to the pub down the street for a burger and a beer. Two beers and an uncooked hamburger later, I walked through the streets of Seattle and found myself in front of a joint called Silver Moon. A rundown bar with neon signs from last century and several code violations.

  The ripped bouncer stares down at me as I try to enter the joint. “ID?” I pull out my wallet and show it to him. The bald man tilts his head toward the entrance and I make my way in.

  I refrain from explaining to him that his attitude is scaring the few customers they have. Then I think again, they should be closed. A bar on a Sunday at seven is not going to gather many patrons. They should wait until nine to open the place. If I owned this shithole, I’d make a lot of changes. I come to a halt and check out the bar. A tall, curvy woman is pouring a few shots, opening bottles, and mixing drinks while a few customers watch blatantly. Her soft facial features remind me of a princess, or an angel. Once her audience is served, they make themselves scarce and she wipes the counter. Then she proceeds to pour a shot of vodka and stares at it for a few seconds. Weird.

  “Is that for me?” I step closer and point at the glass.

  She lifts her gaze and straightens her body. The woman is only a couple inches shorter than my six foot one. She stares at me. The dim light of the bar doesn’t allow me to distinguish the color but they are soft, just like her.

  “Vodka?” Her soft voice travels through my ears and caresses my entire body. She looks at me and shakes her head. “No, you’re more like a whiskey-scotch kind of guy. Beer when you’re watching the game.”

  “What game?” I smile at her and drink the shot, slamming the glass when I’m done. “Hockey?”

  She shrugs and hands me a glass of Jack Daniels. Her hand lifts and she points toward the other side of the bar. There’s a stage and a group of people setting up. “If I were you, I’d be leaving soon. Open mic sucks on Sundays.”

  I drink the JD as I check the entire joint. There isn’t much to it. If we could place a couple of billiard tables, upgrade the bar, and maybe use the upstairs area, the place would attract a different crowd. My eyes land on the entrance where the bouncer continues his task of scaring any incoming customers.

  “Can you give me a whiskey sour?” The bartender frowns at me. “What? You don’t like my choice of drink?”

  “That’d be your third drink,” she points out as she starts preparing it, “in less than ten minutes. Are you okay?”

  No, but she doesn’t need to know. My defense mechanism kicks in and I snap at her, “Keep them coming.” I set a hundred-dollar bill on top of the counter, take the drink, and head to a table far from her judgmental attitude.

  Gallons of alcohol travel through my body, maybe less. My veins carry five whiskey sours, and the other concoctions I ordered. In my hand I hold the crystal that the insane bartender gave me as I left Silver Moon. She sent it with one of the waitresses wrapped inside a napkin. The napkin read:

  You’re not alone.

  Who gives her the right to send me shit? No one.

  I step inside the apartment, my temporary house, and see Matthew right across the room. He sits at the piano. His eyes are closed and his hands move gracefully along the keys. As I shut the door, his eyes open wide, and the music comes to a complete stop. Our gazes lock onto each other and my heart skips a few beats as my dick stirs. I want him so fucking badly.

  Shit, that’s not me. That must be the alcohol thinking for me. Acting for me, I think as I make my way to where he sits. I shove that weird crystal inside my pocket and conclude that she was right. I’m not alone. I can have Matthew for the night. Forget everything that’s wrong with my life.

  Let him take you the way you like.

  His gaze narrows. “Are you okay?” Matthew rises from the stool, wariness in his expression. His lips are slightly parted and I can’t stop it.

  Please, take me.

  Being drunk makes me do stupid things. At this moment my reflexes aren’t responding. My gut clenches as I realize what’s about to happen. Stop it, idiot. I can’t. It’s like a car collision you can’t avoid. Even as I’m aware that the car in front of me has come to a stop, my foot can’t reach the brake pedal in time to evade it. Yes, I’m going to crash.

  “Tristan?” His gaze carries worry, confusion, and he lowers his head a few inches.

  My body heats up as his lips come closer, my head continues to move forward, and my lips slam against his. My hands reach his neck and I tug him closer to me. The voices in my head scream for me to stop, but I don’t. I can’t. Our tongues fuse. His hands gl
ide along my body. Our hard cocks rub against each other. I close my eyes, letting myself feel and forgetting what’s wrong about what I’m about to do.

  Yes.

  Yes, Matthew, take me.

  “Stop.” He pushes me away. “You’re drunk. I can’t do this to you,” he says, his forehead resting on top of mine. “Tomorrow you’ll regret everything we did, from this kiss to whatever happens after.”

  I open my eyes, encountering a couple of mirrors filled with lust, but also sadness. Maybe it’s pity. My balls ache and so does my dick. Matthew doesn’t understand that I need him tonight. He can make me feel better than I’ve felt in a long time, I just know it. I needed the liquid courage I ingested, but I need Matthew more. He doesn’t understand how much.

  “Fuck, I can’t believe I’m going to say this.” He takes a step backward and rakes his fingers through the long strands of his hair. “Sober up. If we ever do anything, you’ll have to be stone-cold-sober.”

  Matthew spins around and leaves without another word. I shove my hands inside my pockets and that fucking rock pokes my knuckles. I retrieve it and see it up close for the first time. It’s an insignificant crystal, a purple rock.

  “I am alone,” I scream at the beautiful bartender, wishing she could hear me, see me from where I stand. But she’s back at that seedy bar where I met her, and I’m alone. I throw the crystal against the wall and it bounces back landing at my feet.

  One night. I only wanted one night to forget everything. Or was it to remember who I once was?

  The early morning foggy mist drizzles my bare forearms. It’s not every day I go for a run before six at night, but today I chose it as a way to burn some of the energy trapped inside my body. Maybe after this I can get some Zs before I head back to Los Angeles. If not, I might have to drink an entire bottle of Benadryl to send my system into a comatose state. Not a healthy alternative. My mind can’t stop thinking about yesterday’s events. To say that my day sucked is putting it mildly. During family dinner my parents told us that our grandmother has a heart condition. My heart broke with the news, and my sister didn’t take it well either. I wonder if Jacob knows about it, but for now I won’t bring it up with him. Grandma Janine is like a mother to us. She tried to compensate for the lack of a maternal figure in our lives. I doubt we required that, but we adore her for being so loving with us.